


Let Not God Separate

by FhimeChan



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Crack, Heresy, M/M, Manipulations and Conversations, Post TWOTL, Wedding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-26 21:28:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21380857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FhimeChan/pseuds/FhimeChan
Summary: My version of a post-fall hannigram wedding.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 2
Kudos: 36
Collections: RAVAGE - An Infernal Hannibal Anthology





	Let Not God Separate

**Author's Note:**

> This work was written for "Ravage - An Infernal Hannibal Anthology" for the Heresy chapter.

Slipping under the Saracen arches of the Palatine Chapel is easier the more time Hannibal spends in the BSHCI. Just a blink and gold spirals from his memory, drips into the Latin inscriptions on the ceiling, crystallizes in the halo of Christ Pantocrator. 

He paces the white nave, engulfed in the light of countless candles, admiring the elegant lines of an architecture designed centuries before to impress a king. His leather shoes are silent on the levigate marble, softer than in real life; more elegant. A far cry from the shrieking HBCS plastic shoes. 

A noise filters through the barred doors, freezing Hannibal into place. The candles tremble and almost go out, engulfing him in safe shadows. 

The gate to the external world slams open, revealing an ugly small dog. The marble is scratched under its nails, the white columns tremble in front of its irksome barks. It runs to Hannibal, leaving a trail of destruction in Hannibal’s inner fortress. 

_ An apt herald _ , Hannibal thinks, before Will appears at the gateway, slightly out of focus.

As if Hannibal is seeing him through a badly cleaned glass. 

The gold flutters and leaves saints and martyrs, converges around Will in a halo. It circles his ring finger, pulsing with vicious intensity around the plain wedding band, piercing through Hannibal’s darkness all the way to his heart. 

Will walks along the nave in soundless golden waves, sparkling with light in Hannibal’s safe harbor. A buried window crumbles and opens above Hannibal, letting a timid morning light fall on them. 

Hannibal gazes at Will’s coming as a demon follows the unstoppable descent of an avenging angel. Would Will join him in hell, or would the pale rays of the sun destroy his reign of darkness forever? 

He is startled when Will stops, and does not strike. 

They look at each other for long moments, while the universe readjusts to the intrusion. Will’s figure comes into focus slowly, revealed by the daylight and by the warmness in Will’s surprised gaze; invading Hannibal’s refuge with his mundanity. 

They stay motionless as the sun peaks in from the window, dissolving in sparkles the golden aura surrounding Will, until only the prosaic twinkling of dust remains. The golden band becomes a common piece of metal, unnoticeable like a faded print on a wall. 

Sounds comes back to Hannibal; or maybe what changes is his capability to process them; the creaking of the wood of the seats, the panting of the dog, the faltering rhythm of his breathing.

“Hannibal,” Will says, in a greeting casual and abysmally out of place in Hannibal’s solemn sanctuary.

“Hello, Will,” comes out as a slightly more appropriate answer, the greeting an ageless ritual requesting to be fulfilled before the slaughter. 

Will does not bend to the attempt of re-establishing order. In the mundane concreteness in which he has drowned Hannibal, he gets down on his knees to pet the mutt. 

Hannibal looks in disbelief at his crouching companion. Fur drops to the ancient floor, covering the bones painted there; a new layer between Hannibal and his rules, a new delightful disruption by Will’s presence. 

Will gets back on his feet when the dog runs back towards the gate. He hesitates, starts to fade. He glances at Hannibal. The warmness is still there, keeping his eyes vivid and clear. 

Hannibal waits for his decision, braces for another blow. The memory of Will’s last words concretes in a glass blade, the handle in Will’s hand, the blade over Hannibal’s heart. 

Will shatters it with a smile and a nod towards the door. “She’s going to play on the river. Fancy to walk a muddy dog?”

“Not really.” 

And yet Hannibal subjects himself willingly to the indignity, following Will to the exit of his sanctuary, marching towards the maddening normality of soaked furs, slimy water, and Will. 

The world outside is out of focus. In the sunny river bank, a pack of dogs welcomes Will back, jumping on his clothes. Hannibal takes one step outside of the gates, longing. 

The reality fragments on shards of crystal, which dance in the air and recompose themselves in the glass delimiting Hannibal’s entire world. 

* * *

Piazza dei Miracoli - the Square of Miracles - shines under the sun of July. The white marble is striking against the blue sky, reclaiming the admiration of the human mass. Every patch of the Prato in front of the famous Leaning Tower of Pisa is crowded; people are chatting, pointing, laughing and stumbling over each other for a picture. They waited for the busiest hour of the day. 

Hannibal blinks, ignoring the unruly mob to focus on the handsome man by his side. 

Every wrinkle, every line of scar tissue is clear under the unforgiving light, yet the piercing clarity suits Will as much as it hurts Hannibal. He scans the crowd, strolling across the mass of people with the divine assurance of an angelic mess, sent to hell to battle his own demon and uncaring of any lost souls on his path. He has been like that since he woke up from the fall into the Atlantic. 

Hannibal, remembering fireplaces and soft illumination and Will’s undivided attention, feels pinned in place under the sun, lost. Will’s cruelty tastes like the irony of poetic justice, transforms the square into the deepest circle of hell. 

They are close enough to touch, but Hannibal can’t move closer, can’t draw attention. They are already risking so much visiting Pisa, even disguised within the horde of tourists. A wide space of boiling air divides them, almost as inescapable as the glass. 

Will looks at the tower with a slight smile. Hannibal frets in his contemplation, happy that Will is enjoying the trip Hannibal chose, desperate for a shred of attention. Most days Will is distant, closed off in memories, or battling against his own mind. Today he is relaxed, an impossibly physical presence in the heat and sweat of Italian summer. 

Will turns towards him, with the smirk he has recently adopted. Another mask against him, but Hannibal finds the sarcasm appealing. Anything to have those eyes on him, no matter if piercing with righteous fury or hinting to a smile.

Will touches his shoulder, lingering to smooth the fabric of the shirt while catching his eyes with a knowing smirk. Hannibal suppresses a shiver and almost blushes, feeling transparent. Will says casually, “We never spoke about your fixation with churches.”

An offer to trade emotions, even though the topic assures a certain distance. Hannibal clings to the promise of intimacy. “A mere admiration of the fine arts. The raw morbidity of Christian arts is unmatched within the centuries.”

“Hardly easy to find dismembered bodies in exposition anywhere else, right?” Will’s mouth curls up, carefree while he pokes into Hannibal’s mind. As Hannibal wanted him. Will could strike him as he pleases, and Hannibal would still bare himself for more. 

“In a Mass, we celebrate the transubstantiation of bread and wine into meat and blood, while praying towards a torture device embellished in gold.” 

“Socially celebrated cannibalism.” Will stretches, a veil of sweat glistening on his skin. “No wonder you feel such a kinship with the Christian God. I bet you enjoyed being almost crucified by Matthew.” 

Hannibal is silent as they enter the Campo Santo, the holy ground said to contain the sacred soil from the Golgotha. He sacrifices yet another piece of himself to Will, hoping it will show him the way out of this painful farce they are playing. “I imagine it was aesthetically pleasing.” 

Honesty is a blunt weapon. Hannibal wonders if Christ himself felt relieved, hanging from the cross, finally seen for what he was, flesh, bone and divinity. He continues, “I knew you would picture the scene in your head, finding righteous satisfaction in my pain. It… It pleased me.” Will turns towards him, alarmed at the emotion in the tone. Hannibal pushes. “You wanted me to be a sacrifice, an offering to all my victims. I love that your idea of justice was imprinted in my body in that occasion.” 

Hannibal offers his hands, palm up, showing off the scars. Will grimaces, and the crack in Will’s mask prompts Hannibal to push more. “Tell me, do you require another sacrifice after I let you plunge me into the Atlantic? Or do you prefer me to try and win your companionship over and over, just to be punished with sarcasm and distance?” 

Hannibal’s voice slips on the last syllable. He waits in front of Will for his answer, a supplicant asking for mercy, or for slaughter. Will speaks slowly, considering. “Would you ever stop trying?”

Hannibal deflates. “No.” 

He turns back to exit the graveyard. Will catches up with him easily, and takes his arm. Hannibal shudders at the unexpected contact and looks at him. 

“I require another sacrifice.” Will traces Hannibal’s scar with his finger, then gazes straight into his eyes. “Marry me.”

Hannibal nods and has absolutely no idea what is happening around him, except for the pressure of Will’s arm shepherding him across the crowd in a straight path. 

* * *

“May I take charge of the organization?”

“Do your worst. Don’t invite or kill anyone.”

“Do you have other conditions?”

Will stares at him for a long moment, dissecting the too hopeful look on Hannibal’s face; then shakes his head. Hannibal grins. 

* * *

Outside the orange rays of the setting sun color sea and the sand; inside the wooden cabin Hannibal allowed only candles, reflecting on the heavy crosses on the walls, dancing on the central block of candid marble. 

Will trembles, facing the lamb. “I can’t do this.”

A priest paces around them with a censer, chanting the ancient sacred Latin words. The fragrance obscures the air of the candle lit wooden cabin, spiraling around Hannibal and Will. 

“You must.” Hannibal’s voice is low, solemn. “Only its blood will consecrate this place.”

Will’s eyes shine with annoyance and panic. Their light is a small twinkle stuck between smoke and darkness. “He’s innocent. And I bet that if you bribed the priest well enough to set up an unauthorized church and to marry two men, he’ll overlook this part of the rite.”

Hannibal’s attention fixes on Will’s white tunic, which he has begrudgingly accepted to wear. 

Hannibal has anticipated the moment when Will would stab the lamb over the altar. Red stains on heavy cotton, running over white marble. Will covered in blood, collecting it in golden vials as the priest chanted his prayers.

It would be proof Will has really fallen, has really chosen Hannibal. 

Will looks at him fiercely, his figure blurred in the smoke. Forcing him to kill would seal their pact. It may draw him away forever. 

Hannibal hesitates, his mouth twitches in uncertainty. Will notices it, of course. Instead of pushing cruel words through the crack, he comes closer, cutting across the glass of incense, and puts his hand over Hannibal’s shoulder. 

“Didn’t we shed enough innocent blood?”

Hannibal falls into his blue eyes, bottomless in the candlelight, and decides. “You may spill just some drops of its blood, then free the creature.” A blade of dread draws him to add, “Can you do that?”

Will leans in and kisses him for the first time. The wall between them crumbles into oblivion. “Thank you.”

The priest chants, pacing around the room, enveloping them in more and more smoke. Hannibal stays in the middle of it, looking at Will’s tunic soaking in red, hearing the shushing noises of Will to the bleating creature and feeling disconnected. 

* * *

At Hannibal’s gesture, the priest spreads white cotton over the stained marble altar. A gold plate and a goblet carry the host and the wine, soon to be shared between them, binding them forever in same flesh and blood. 

While the priest chants in Latin, Hannibal takes Will’s hand in his own and whispers the translation, “Do you take your lawful husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?”

Will’s hand shakes, but his voice is firm as he looks at Hannibal and says ”I do.”

Will’s smiles shyly as he slips on the golden band. The feeling of his fingers around Hannibal’s is shockingly intimate. 

They kiss again, a chaste peck to seal their vows. As they walk out, Hannibal knocks over the perpetual lamp, spilling the sacred oil and setting the cabin on fire.

* * *

The flames rise high in the night, a burst of light reflected by the sea. Hannibal is not hurt by their glow anymore. 

He admires the destruction, imagining jars and vials melting over the altar, the gold mixing with the blood and gripping the marble, forever testifying this moment. 

Will’s hand tightens in his, anchoring him back to the reality. 

“Well. A campfire on the beach. I didn’t take you for the boy scout type, my husband.”

The sarcasm cannot mask Will’s burning smile and fond tone. Hannibal passes an arm across Will’s back, dragging him close. He soaks in the shared heat, in the undeniable physical contact with Will.

“Blood and fire are divine cleansing instruments. We are reborn anew.”

Will laughs, a bit breathless. “Trust you to be just this theatrical.” Conspiratorially, he whispers, “Tell me, my husband, what do you see between the flames?”

“I see Dis, the burning city of Hell, overturned by our power. I see you standing there, victorious in your divine light. I see us blurring between the flames, merging light and darkness with supreme scorn for the deities who would keep them separated.” He kisses Will on the cheek. “We’re magnificent.”

Will snorts, giddy. “I supposed I’m lucky you picked some plain band rings.”

Hannibal presses a smile to Will’s temple. “I had them melted from Hitler’s fake Graal. A memento of what devotion taken to extreme can inspire.”

Will laughs in earnest, clutching at Hannibal for balance as he shakes. 

When he recovers, he says, “You mean a sign that even monsters sometimes can be fooled.” 

Hannibal leans in closer, until there is no space left between them, stunned by the novelty of being finally allowed such intimacy. “Only by you, my beloved husband, I assure you.”

* * *

They sat on the beach, burning ashes behind, endless sea ahead. 

The stars shine over them, punctuating the black immensity. Hannibal feels they have reached a fixed point in time, the only one around which their lives are revolving. 

He leans on Will, staring at the water from where they emerged, radically changed and fixedly unchanged.

Will hums in answer, tethering them down to the present once again. “You know, I saw you once.” Hannibal holds his breath. “I was taking my dogs to the river.” A beat, then an accusation. “You disappeared.”

Hannibal entwines their fingers. Their rings clicks, a small flutter of gold in the starlight. A reminder that they scattered the glass keeping them apart. 

Hannibal regards the small tokens, mundane enough to fit into Will’s world and yet otherworldly under the starlight. The gold, once used to deceive, clings innocently to their hands. It screams their bond to whatever god exists outside of Will’s path, now their shared path. 

“Until death do us part, and beyond.”

**Author's Note:**

> I was overjoyed when I knew I would be part of Jamie & Romina's project! The Anthology is beautiful and full of amazing works, ad I'm flattered to be inside together with people way more skilled than me.  
I tried to write a happy, self-indulgent, heartwarming story and I really hope you readers liked it :)


End file.
